


fuck in the fire and we'll spread all the ashes around

by ultraviolense



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Nuclear Winter, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolense/pseuds/ultraviolense





	fuck in the fire and we'll spread all the ashes around

mallory looks like she was taken out of an old painting of nymphs. michael wants to nail her, right through her delicate wrists, on an ornate canvas and decorate her with flowers and thorns and sunlight woven through her hair, have her last breath be a devotion.

he squints and mallory breaks into a hundred mallories, then a thousand and smirks. to have that kind of power.  
*  
he is harsh and punishing when he fucks her. he doesn’t push her body to its limits to pleasure her, or even hurt her. he wants to know how much it takes for her to snap, to take gallant’s scissors and plunge them through his dark, dark heart.

only when his head is between her legs does he let the masks slip, his face shifting. he wants to eat her, chew and gnaw on her bones until all her shame and darkness and pain oozes out and clogs his throat. mallory comes, hands tensing up under his, a breathy sigh and mr. langdon slips back into his place- cooperative employee, judge, jury, executioner.  
*  
sometimes she cries for what he did to her, to all of them actually, and he wonders what gift he should get miss mead, if he should wear the velvet jacket or is it too tacky for lunch as she scrapes the walls and throws plates and screams, a dangerous, pained sound.

she stops mere inches from his face, eyes wet and fists balled up. she could destroy everything of his but never him. to have that kind of power.

later on, michael patches up her hands and paints her nails a dark red. they talk dinner plans.  
*  
sometimes she cries for the lost ones, the ones whose bodies rot in the radioactive ground outside, corpses ravaged by the nuclear winter. he gets quite agitated, wants to slap her across her little face for no tears and magic can bring them back.

she doesn’t tear the room down, like all the fight has gotten out of her, leaving just the gaping wound in her chest. she cries and cries and at times michael wants to bring them all back just to squeeze the life out of them and let it pass unto her. he has to invent new things to do, come up with new tricks to put distance between these two mallories-pre and post-michael mallory- because he’s afraid he’ll wake up one day to her hanging from the rafters. he goes to sleep after gorging on flesh and tears and to her sobs in the night, every night.  
*  
when things are good with mallory, they’re perfect. she’s the tidal shore under his waves and they twirl around the room, mallory his multifaceted diamond that reflects the best parts of him back at him and in that moment he can be, he is, _he is_.  
*  
sometimes she cries for what she did to him and michael thrives off it. she sits at the foot of the bed, not looking at him until he kneels, caressing her knee, just like that time when he interviewed her. _you should've taken the chance, little girl_ , he wants to sneer at her but he has her right where he wants her now so instead he kisses her tears away. you see, she has nowhere else to go.


End file.
